Rain
by Peach-Fox
Summary: A brief exchange between Molly and Sherlock after the fall.


They draped the dark jacket around them, covering themselves as best they could from the ocean that fell from the clouds. Dawn slipped subtly into the dark velvet skies to color the morning pink. The man wasn't used to being as close to the woman as he was. The press of clammy warmth beneath sodden cotton was new to him. He felt the breath from her mouth, only inches away from his, warming the air that he pulled into his lungs. Her brown hair, dripping with water, falling in stringy rivulets around her shoulders, intertwined desperately with the man's own dark curls. For once, he was grateful for the closeness that the woman had always offered.

A diluted red laced down Sherlock's pale cheeks, down his neck, down, down, to pool on his buttoned shirt in a bloody stain. The wounds from his death were disappearing in the rain. Maybe the water would clean everything. Maybe, when the storm stopped, Sherlock could return to London (he would run, if he could) and Moriarty would be washed away like blood in the rain. And John would be there on the cobbles beneath the roof, and Sherlock would run to him and grab him by the shoulders (not too hard on the left) and shake him and grin. And John would hit him, probably, and hug him next, and they could forget about everything else because the rain would erase it. They would be left there, standing with one another and the world around them washed away.

But of course that wasn't right. The only thing that could wash away Moriarty's shadows was time- which Sherlock was distressed to part with. Time had finally been on his side. Molly stirred beneath the detective's arms, and he suddenly remembered her presence. Sherlock smiled at her with crinkling cheeks and wet lips and bright eyes.

"The blood's coming off," she said, reaching up to place a tentative hand at Sherlock's temple.

"I know," he said. He used a sleeve of the jacket to scrub off the last of the death on his face. Sherlock's arms were starting to hurt from holding them over his head for so long. He lowered them, flexing them to remind the blood to flow, and began to wring out his jacket.

"I don't think it was doing much, anyway," Molly laughed, crossing her arms over her chest to keep in some of the warmth.

Sherlock had donned his jacket, after the quick deduction that it was impossible for his clothing to be more saturated than they already were. He was soaked. And he was freezing. But be he was alive. Sherlock rocked back on his heels and regarded the area around him. His eyes raked over the railway stretching infinitely in both directions, over at the station that was beginning to fill despite the ungodliness of the hour, to the clouds that seemed intent on raining for the rest of day. His eyes wandered back to Molly, who was staring at him.

"You should get back to London," he told her. "Your absence will be noticed if it continues for much longer. You should also change into dry clothes, or you'll catch a cold."

Molly nodded. Now was not the time (she doubted there ever _was_ one) to argue with Sherlock Holmes.

"Where are you going to go?" she asked.

"Away," he replied. "There are tasks that require my attention."

"Are you going to come back?"

"Three years."

"Sorry?"

Sherlock, whose gaze had wandered again, returned his eyes to Molly.

"Three years, Molly. I'll be back."

"Oh," she said. She didn't understand the cognition that churned behind Sherlock's marble face. She didn't think that anyone did.

"Well you'll know where to find me," she smiled. Sherlock had focused all his attention on Molly, something that had happened only a few times before. It meant that something important was coming.

"Molly," he said. His voice was strained, his eyes were suddenly bright and open, and Sherlock looked more vulnerable than he ever had before. Molly swallowed the feeling in her throat.

"Sweet Molly," he said, his face softening a little. "Look at me."

So Molly looked at his eyes, those ever-changing turquoise green eyes, and saw exactly what he'd wanted her to. Sherlock's heart was plain on his face, for the first time that Molly could remember. There were things written there that she knew Sherlock would never voice. She could almost smell the singed flesh, touch the angry-red darkened edges of this heart that so many doubted the existence of. His heart was burned, yes, but it wasn't broken. She placed a hand on his chest, and he pressed his own hand over hers.

Molly saw fear and hope and anguish. She saw _thank you for everything you've done_, and she saw _I'm sorry for Christmas. I'm sorry for me. And for every smiled that you gave me that I ignored. I'm sorry that this is the first time that I've really looked at you and seen you for who you are_. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, his brow crinkled and shaking. When he looked at Molly again, she saw what he had been pulling to the surface to show her.

_I'm sorry that you love me. Sorry that I'll never return it. But I'm not sorry, I will __**never**__ be sorry for loving him. Please take care of him._

Molly laughed and felt warm water spilling from her eyes to mingle with the rain on her face. Sherlock gazed at her intently, needing to see that she had read everything properly.

And she had. She'd read it long before Sherlock had offered it to her. Just this once, Molly had known something before him. She had known the second that she had seen John and Sherlock together, that they were the only ones for one-another, regardless of the direction that relationship went. They would always be only one half of the heart they had grown together. Sherlock sighed some of the worry out of his lungs. He was glad that Molly was as perceptive as she was. John would be safe with her, he knew. Sherlock leaned down to Molly and kissed her lightly, barely a brush of his lips on hers, in a final goodbye, one last thank you.

When he straightened, Sherlock had regained all composure. His eyes were dark and unreadable, with a growing glint of determination. He turned, jacket twirling in the morning mist, and strode briskly into the brightening world, disappearing into the crowd of people that had grown at the station. Molly smiled after the figure, cheeks wet with salt and rain.

Molly wiped her eyes before turning back to her car, back toward London and the next three years that waited there.


End file.
